Left Hand of the Law

by Charles G. West

  He had been sorry to hear about the disappearance of Barrett; they had been partners for quite a few years. He and Barrett had not been close friends. No one he knew of was really a friend of Barrett’s, but Barrett tolerated Ike, more so than any of the other deputies. Ike was sure that had a lot to do with sending him to Deadwood to follow up on reports of a man answering Ben Cutler’s description there, and his possible involvement in several murders. It was a helluva long way out of his usual territory, but his boss had gotten very little help from the marshal in Dakota Territory. In the first place, he had been told, the Black Hills were still officially Indian Territory by treaty, so a U.S. marshal had no jurisdiction there. It was suggested that they turn the matter of their missing deputy over to the army. Ike’s boss would have none of that. He was convinced that Barrett was killed by the fugitive, Cutler, and now he was continuing his killing rampage in Deadwood. So on a chilly fall day, Ike found himself hoofing it to the stage station in Cheyenne, lugging his saddle on his shoulder.

  He would have preferred to bring his horse along on the train, but it was much quicker to take the stage from Cheyenne instead of going horseback. The government had built a road from Cheyenne to Deadwood, following the Chugwater and Laramie rivers, passing through Fort Laramie, and on up into Indian Territory to Custer City and Deadwood. Road ranches, or swing stations, were all along the road about every ten miles, making it much faster to make the trip in a big Concord coach with a six-horse team than a man could travel horseback—about two and a half days, compared to about seven and a half days.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have left Barrett on that afternoon north of Ogallala. Barrett might be alive now if he hadn’t, but he felt no guilt in his decision to turn back. If he had to assign blame, he might put it on Barrett himself for being so damned determined to bring Cutler in. Even now, Ike wasn’t convinced that Cutler was a conscienceless killer, and nobody knew what had actually happened to Barrett because his body had never been found. It was probably no more than a wasted trip, Ike figured. But what the hell, he thought, as long as I’m being paid to do it?

  With nothing more to go on, Ben started out for Cheyenne, hoping that the information given him by Pearl Cotton was accurate, and aware that as each day passed, his odds of catching up to Sam Cheney went up. He thought about Cleve as he left Custer City, following the stage road. If Cleve was still alive, he would no doubt have led them to shortcuts through canyons and valleys the surveyors hadn’t known about. Since he didn’t possess Cleve’s knowledge of the country, however, he would stick to the road laid out by the engineers. He could only assume that Cheney had taken the same road. Even though he was keeping the buckskin to a steady, ground-eating pace, he was unlikely to overtake him on the trail unless Cheney decided to stop over awhile at one of the stage swing stations. The stage ranches, as some were called, were generally spaced approximately ten miles apart, so the rapid pace of the six-horse teams could be maintained. As he approached each one, Ben looked it over carefully before asking the operators if they had seen a man with a long yellow ponytail. He was treated with suspicion each time, and received no confirmation that Cheney had been there. It was on his fourth stop at the Cheyenne River crossing that he gained assurance that he was on the right trail.

  “The name’s Wilcox,” the man stated before asking Ben what he could do for him. As the others before, he studied Ben’s face closely, wondering if he would be better off with his shotgun in hand.

  “I’m tryin’ to catch up with a friend of mine,” Ben said. “At least, I thought he was a friend of mine, till he ran off and left me.” Wilcox seemed to relax a little then, although the guarded expression remained on his face. “I reckon I had a little too much to drink at a saloon back yonder in Custer City,” Ben went on, “and I woke up this mornin’ in the alley behind it. When I went back to our camp, damned if Cheney hadn’t took off without me.”

  A smile broke Wilcox’s worried expression. “I can’t say that couldn’t happen to me if I was to get off without my wife sometime. What’d you say your friend’s name was?”

  “Cheney,” Ben repeated. “Wears his hair in a long ponytail down his back.”

  “Oh, him,” Wilcox said. “Yeah, matter of fact he was in here—stopped in for supper last night.”

  “Well, I reckon I’m not that far behind him at that,” Ben said. “I ’preciate the help. Maybe I’ll get a little somethin’ to eat while I’m here. I need to rest my horse.”

  “Maggie can fix you up with a plate of catch-as-can stew,” Wilcox said. “That’s the special for today. It’s best if you don’t ask what’s in it.” He chuckled as he pointed to the long table behind him. “But I’ve been eatin’ it for twenty years and I’m still here.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Ben said, “if there’s coffee to go with it.”

  “Coffee as black as the inside of a mortal sin,” Wilcox responded. “You’re lucky to get it while it’s fresh brewed. We’ll have a stagecoach pullin’ in here before long, so you’ll get ahead of the passengers.”

  The stew was well worth the seventy-five cents Maggie charged for it. As Wilcox had said, it appeared that she had thrown about everything she could find into the pot. He enjoyed the luxury of not having to fix supper for himself, but he reminded himself that he should not spend the balance of Shep, as he referred to the money he had saved in the small grave beside Mary Ellen and Danny, on too many fancy suppers.

  When he left, Maggie came from the kitchen to stand by her husband as he watched Ben step up in the stirrup and throw a leg over. “I declare,” she opined, “that is one evil-lookin’ man.”

  “Yeah,” Wilcox replied, “I was kinda nervous about him when he walked in, but once you get to talkin’ to him, he seems like a nice feller. He said that other feller was a friend of his, but I got a feelin’ he ain’t the kind of friend ol’ Ponytail is gonna be glad to see.”

  He had ridden over five miles when he saw the stage to Deadwood approaching, a team of six well-matched horses thundering along the hard ground at top speed, hauling a brightly painted yellow Concord coach. That catch-as-can stew is going to be pretty old by the time you folks get to the Cheyenne River, Ben thought. He pulled his hat down low on his forehead and cocked it to one side, a habit he had acquired in an effort to hide as much of his face as possible.

  Slim Yates cracked his whip a couple of times to keep the lead horses’ minds on their business. Beside him on the seat, Ike Gibbs held on when the coach rumbled over a rough set of dried ruts. “I don’t often get the chance to have a U.S. marshal ridin’ shotgun,” Slim yelled over the noise of the coach, “and I ain’t even carryin’ no gold on this run.”

  “I’d be ridin’ in style inside if you didn’t charge so damn much,” Ike said. It was cheaper beside the driver, at five dollars, compared to ten dollars inside. And that was for a middle seat. It was fifteen for a window seat. “Rider up ahead, heading towards us,” he said as the coach cleared the mouth of a wide ravine.

  “Looks like he’s by hisself,” Slim commented as the distance between the coach and the rider decreased. It was not the usual occurrence to meet a lone rider this far above Fort Laramie on the road. From habit, Slim took a critical look at the terrain on both sides and up ahead, then decided there was no indication of a holdup about to be sprung. For emphasis, he cracked his whip over the lead horses, and the coach rumbled on. When the two met, the rider pulled off to the side, well out of the way of the charging horses, and doffed his hat to answer Slim’s yelled greeting and wave.

  Ike waved as well with no more than a casual glance at the man on horseback. Something triggered a thought in his mind as the stage rattled past, however. He was riding a buckskin horse. A lot of men rode buckskin horses, but it was enough to cause him to turn in the seat and crawl back on the top of the stage to try to get another look. When the rider had taken his hat off and waved it, the wide brim had actually hidden his face. There was only an instant in which Ike caught a glimpse of the scarr
ed face. Damn! It couldn’t be! Already the distance between the racing coach and the rider was almost one hundred yards, and rapidly increasing. Frozen with indecision, he couldn’t react at once. What were the odds he would pass the man he was going after on the road to Deadwood? The rider was getting farther and farther away while Ike hesitated. Finally, he could no longer ignore the feeling he had that he had just waved to Ben Cutler. Scrambling back to the seat then, he exclaimed, “Stop! Stop this damn thing!”

  Slim looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Stop, hell. I’m about five hours late reachin’ the Cheyenne crossin’ now.”

  “Damn it, you’ve got to stop this damn stage,” Ike shouted. “We just passed the man I’ve come all the way out here to find!”

  “The hell you say?” Slim replied, all the while making no move to even slow his horses. “How do you know that? I thought you said you’d never seen the feller.”

  “I saw enough to know. We’ve got to turn back, so I can know for sure.”

  “Turn back?” Slim blurted incredulously. “I can’t turn back. This stage line ain’t in the business of chasin’ outlaws. Look inside that coach. I can’t risk the lives of my passengers for you to go huntin’ for murderers and such. I’m riskin’ my own life if I don’t make up some of this lost time.” Seeing the look of alarm in the marshal’s eyes, he reconsidered. “I reckon I can stop long enough for you to get off if you wanna do that.”

  “Are you crazy?” Ike fumed. In the time they had argued, the coach had already covered at least a mile, not counting the distance traveled by the man on the horse. “I can’t go after him on foot.”

  “Maybe he’ll stop to make camp before too long,” Slim suggested, “and you can catch up to him then.” The look of astonishment on the deputy’s face told him that was out. “I reckon you’ll just have to wait till we make Cheyenne crossin’, and buy you a horse from Wilcox. That’s the best you can do.”

  Ike sat down hard on the seat, almost blinded by his frustration, convinced beyond a doubt now that the man he had just seen was in fact Ben Cutler. It was just so damned ridiculous that it had to be so, and here they were, going in opposite directions just as fast as they could. At that point, they were only a couple more miles from the station, but it seemed like double that before the coach actually pulled into the yard. Ike was off the box before the coach came to a stop. Wasting no time, he pulled his saddle off the top and headed toward the house as fast as he could walk.

  “I can’t give you none of your fare back,” Slim called after him. “I don’t handle none of the money.” When Ike didn’t bother to even look back at him, he added, “Good luck, though.”

  “Where’s the owner?” Ike demanded as soon as he burst into the room. “What’s his name? Wilcox? Where’s Mr. Wilcox?” Immediately alarmed by his obviously agitated state, Maggie Wilcox backed away a step, not sure she wanted to tell the man where her husband was. Realizing at once the cause of her concern, Ike pulled his coat aside, far enough to display the badge on his vest. “I’m a U.S. deputy marshal, ma’am, and I need to buy a horse just as fast as I can.” They both had to step inside the door then to get out of the way of the passengers streaming in, heading for the dinner table.

  “My husband’s outside, hooking up the fresh team of horses on the stage, I suppose,” Maggie said, relieved that she had not been about to be robbed. Ike spun on his heel and charged back out the door without so much as a thank-you. Maggie sighed in tired indifference before turning and seeing to her duties as hostess.

  “You don’t say?” Wilcox responded when Ike explained his predicament. “That man was an outlaw, after all. I’ll tell you, he sure looked like one. I was afraid he had come in to rob us or somethin’, but once you got to talkin’ to him, he—” That was as far as he got before Ike interrupted him.

  “Mister, I need a horse, and I need it in a hurry,” Ike blurted impatiently. “Have you got some stock that’s saddle broke? And I don’t mean any ol’ fleabag you’re fixin’ to put down. You’ll be paid by the federal marshal service.”

  “Well, yeah,” Wilcox said, somewhat hesitantly, “I’ve got some good saddle-broke horses. I guess I could part with one of ’em. Ain’t you got any cash money on you? I don’t know how the federal government is gonna pay me.”

  Ike was trying hard to hold on to his temper, but it was getting more difficult as he thought of Cutler getting farther and farther away while he stood there bickering with Wilcox. He was already considering stealing one of the man’s horses if he didn’t get down to business pretty soon. “You don’t have to worry about the money,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you get it.”

  “How they gonna do that?” Wilcox persisted. “There ain’t no bank or post office around here. You ride off on one of my horses, chances are I’ll never see you or the horse again. Then where’s my money?”

  “Jesus, man!” Ike fairly exploded. “They’ll wire the money to Cheyenne, and you’ll get it on the stage. Now, are you ready to sell me a horse? Or had you rather I take the damn horse at gunpoint?”

  “There ain’t no call for you to get testy about it,” Wilcox said. “I just want to make sure I get paid. Come on, I’ll show you what I’ve got.” He turned and led the way to the corral. There were about fifteen horses there, not counting the tired team just unhitched. “There’s about three good saddle horses in that bunch. That little mare is a good’un for a ridin’ horse,” he suggested. “I could let you have her for fifty dollars.”

  Ike looked the bunch over quickly, then brought his eye back to the gray mare Wilcox had pointed out. “She mighta been, before she got so old she can hardly stand up,” he said curtly. “I ain’t in the market for some old nag to ride the children around the yard. How’bout that sorrel in the corner there?”

  “I see you got a good eye,” Wilcox said. “That’s a good horse, all right. That’s the horse I ride if I gotta go somewhere. I’d have to have two hundred dollars for that horse.”

  Ike didn’t flinch, he just gazed dead-eyed at Wilcox for a long moment before responding. “The government will give you one hundred dollars for that horse, and that’s probably twenty-five more than he’s worth.” He didn’t wait for Wilcox’s answer, but immediately took a coil of rope from the saddle at his feet and climbed over the fence. “Write your full name and whatever address you use on a piece of paper, and I’ll see you get your money.”

  “Well, I reckon that’s a fair price,” Wilcox called out helplessly while Ike threw a noose on the sorrel and led it to the corral gate. “I ain’t got no paper or pen.”

  Ike pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from his saddlebag and handed it to Wilcox. Then he slipped his bridle over the sorrel’s head and set the bit in its mouth. The horse did not fight it, so Ike threw his saddle on and tightened the cinch. He took the paper and pencil from Wilcox and put them in the saddlebag, then stepped up in the saddle. The sorrel bucked two times before settling down. “He ain’t been rode in a while,” Wilcox offered as explanation. Then when Ike reached down and opened the corral gate, he asked, “Ain’t you gonna go in and eat?”

  “I ain’t got time to eat,” Ike said, and nudged the horse with his heels.

  Wilcox stood watching him until he loped out to the road and turned back the way the stage had just come. Wilcox returned to the stagecoach then, just to check to make sure the new team was hooked up properly. Satisfied that everything was in order, he started toward the house. I knew that fellow with the scar was an outlaw, first time I set eyes on him, he thought. “Wait till I tell Maggie I finally got rid of that cross-tempered ol’ sorrel.” He smiled at the thought. “And for a hundred dollars,“ he added. As he stepped up on the front porch, another thought occurred to him. I wonder if I should have told that lawman that the scar-faced fellow was chasing ol’ Ponytail.

  “What do you want?” Garth Beaudry demanded brusquely when he glanced up to see Floyd Trask in the doorway. Taking a second look at the unimposing young man, he asked,
“When did you start wearing a gun?”

  Floyd ignored the question. “I thought you’d be at the funeral,” he said. In effect, it had not really been much of a funeral. There had been no one in attendance but Floyd, two gravediggers, and the undertaker when Angel Lopez’s body had been committed to the ground.

  “Hell,” Garth replied irritably, “I had to pay for the damn thing. That was enough.” He was still in an irritable mood, caused by Angel’s failure to do the job he had sent her to do.

  “She was a beautiful lady before she took up with you,” Floyd said. “And now she’s dead because of you. You didn’t deserve a lady like Angel.”

  Alerted then to the change in the usually subservient nature of the simple young man, Garth didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But you don’t need to let this business put crazy thoughts in your head. Angel was just another whore whose number was up. I advise you to let it go at that.”

  Floyd shook his head sadly. “You didn’t even care enough to go to her funeral.”

  “No!” Garth screamed. “Don’t!” He knocked his chair over in jumping to his feet when Floyd unhurriedly pulled the revolver from his holster and pointed it at him. “Wait!” he begged as Floyd deliberately aimed the weapon at his chest. The few patrons in the dining room, having been alerted when Garth knocked over the chair, ran for the door when they saw the drawn pistol. Behind them, the report of the revolver cracked sharply, the sound amplified by the smallness of the room. Garth Beaudry crumbled to the floor, a bullet through his heart. Floyd turned and walked out of the room behind the frightened diners, who parted to make a path for him.